I was in eighth grade when I boarded a plane alone for a flight from Atlanta to Philadelphia. The airport was a confusing but magical place. This was before the tragedy of 9/11, and by today’s standards, we got out of our cars and almost waltzed to the gate. The only stress I remember feeling was that of flying alone. Luckily, the flight attendants seemed genuinely happy to have me aboard and were willing to watch over me and answer my questions. During the three-hour flight, I even received a meal, not just the peanuts and Coke we get nowadays.

When I arrived in Philly, my Uncle Jim was already waiting for me at the gate. With his always-serious expression, he asked me how the flight was and if I had gotten something to eat. I remember seeing the skyline of the city and the industrial smoke as we drove from the airport. I thought, “Wow, I’m not in Kansas anymore.” In fact, I had never been to Kansas either, but this was night and day from the suburbs of Georgia where I spent most of my childhood.

My uncle and my cousin Keaire lived near downtown Philadelphia. They seemed to have an efficient, well-kept home. There wasn’t much bickering about chores or responsibilities. Being an active, growing teenager with an insatiable appetite, what struck me most was the fullness of the refrigerator and pantry. Even though it was unnecessary, I found myself sneaking around to get food and drinks. Regardless, why had I come to visit alone for the entire summer? Vacation? Change of scenery? While all of these were partially true, the main point of my visit was work exposure.

Reach Communications was owned and operated by my uncle and his partner. They employed about 40 people in a building in downtown Philadelphia off Spruce Street. I quickly learned it was in—let’s just say—a more “flamboyant” part of the city. While I was being shown around by my cousin Keaire, I asked him, “So, what’s my job?” I had only worked odd jobs before, and certainly never anything in an office building in a major city. I was interested in finding out what I had already signed up for (other than collecting a paycheck for my rate of ten dollars an hour, which was a small fortune for me back then). But, to my surprise, he didn’t tell me much. His response was vague, mentioning something like “a little of this and that.” That summed it up—I was an errand boy or a “go-for” in a city I knew nothing about. (Thank goodness for nepotism on this occasion!) It was frightening at first, but eventually, I got the hang of my whereabouts.

I wouldn’t have described myself as a foodie in those days, but food was not a secret obsession of mine. I was already thinking about my next meal before I had finished my last. For breakfast every morning, I would stop at my favorite food trucks that had fresh egg, cheese, and sausage sandwiches. It’s interesting in retrospect that these were Muslims cooking and selling pork sandwiches. Even though I was an out-of-practice Muslim, I would only order the egg and cheese sandwich—never pork. The egg, with a hint of black pepper and cheddar cheese, was tasty enough for me. For lunch, I would try so many different kinds of foods I had no access to in the suburbs. I’d have the famous Philly cheesesteak, some Liberian cassava leaf, Chinese takeout orange chicken, or Jamaican jerk chicken. However, by the time my long-awaited paycheck came, even though I had earned the most I had ever earned in my life, I had literally eaten the majority of my earnings. My uncle was a quiet, humble, hard-working, and not very flashy man, though I saw he possessed his own style. He led by example, not by many words. He never cautioned or stopped me when he saw me buying my meals. He just smirked when I asked him what I could do to save more. He said, “You should pack a lunch like me.”

In loving memory of James Cassell.

The author is an anonymous physician.